Silence of the Disillusioned
by newyorktopaloalto
Summary: When Spot got truly livid, he didn't yell or throw or drink or do anything expected of him. Instead, he got quiet. Quiet to the point where being a room alone would be better than being with him for company. This tale has everything and nothing to do with that fact. Modern day Spavid.


A/N: For a tumblr follower, who asked for 'angsty Spavid with a happy ending.' Well, the ending is... hopeful, at least.

* * *

Spot didn't yell when he was truly angry. Annoyed, happy, sad, exuberant, irritated, any other emotion and he was probably yelling at some point. But when he was truly angry— like to his soul hurt and betrayed, he just got quiet. It had only happened twice in his life before, once when his father left he and his mother for some European vacation he never came back from, and the other when he had been accused and almost convicted of selling little kids drugs, by his own cousin. He should have realized that everything in his life came in threes.

He should have expected it, really— there was always unresolved sexual tension between the two of them. But, naively, he had hoped that it would never come to a head. Of course it did.

* * *

Packing his things took more time than he would have liked, and he had to face the fact that most of his life was now here, in this small apartment on 182nd, further away from his childhood home in Brooklyn than anywhere else he had lived before. This was his life, but his life was doing nothing except crumble around him— at least Brooklyn would always accept him back into their midst.

"What are you doing?"

And it had taken too long, obviously. Damn sentiments and not wanting to actually leave.

"Packing."

"Going somewhere?"

"Anywhere else but here."

"Why?"

And he turned to look at the figure in the doorway, eyes slightly incredulous that he somehow _wouldn't _know everything that had happened. He wasn't dumb, never had been— just because he wasn't as book smart didn't mean anything in this case.

"It was a mistake," his lover— ex, sighed, looking believably guilty.

Spot wasn't fooled.

"You're a rational person. You wouldn't have made a mistake like that."

"So you're just leaving, even though we both know it'll never happen again?"

"Yes."

So he did.

* * *

And leaving was the hardest thing he had ever done, if he were honest with himself. He and David had been together, what? Over four years? Yeah, almost five. Almost five years, a ring hidden away in a drawer for the perfect moment, and then nothing.

Spot didn't speak for the next two weeks. Even Racetrack, with whom he was staying and one of his oldest friends, couldn't get more than a couple of words out of him.

Because Spot didn't yell or cry or drink or throw or do anything that people expected him to when he was livid and betrayed and hurt and wanting nothing more than to die— he just went still and silent.

Racetrack tried to talk to him about it— how David looked like shit every morning as he went into work, how Jack accepted that transfer and how David didn't look like he minded one bit, that maybe he and David should talk, that even people like David could make mistakes.

Spot blocked him out, the silent word 'traitor' floating through the air as he pulled the covers up higher and tried to sleep once more.

* * *

He still went about his regular business, not being able to imagine himself as anything less than efficient, even with what had transpired. He was still charming, convincing people to give interviews at the drop of a hat. He was still able to write like no one else in the section, an editorial position looming over his head— a raise he knew would be coming within the next month.

The only thing that was different was that his co-workers didn't hear the annoyed banter he used to shoot around, his almost permanent irritation dulling into nothing more than a stoic wall of silence.

It took a month and a half for David to come by his desk and practically force him into a conversation over lunch. Spot thought it took David longer than expected.

* * *

"You waited awhile."

"You didn't want to see me, I assumed."

Spot almost smirked at the confused expression. "Doesn't mean you wouldn't have come. I was expecting this a couple of weeks ago."

"Race says you're not talking."

"Race is a douche."

He crunched at the ice in the bottom of his soda idly with his straw, looking around the diner— anywhere but David, because he knew what was coming, and he wanted to, maybe, prevent it for a little while longer.

"I'm sorry. It was a mistake."

"I know."

"I thought you said I couldn't make mistakes."

"I was angry."

"You still are," David pointed out, watching Spot's motions become more irate, the twitch showing that he maybe wasn't as angry as he wanted to be anymore. Spot was furious.

"You cheated on me with Jack Kelly, of course I'm angry."

"But you didn't seem surprised."

"We were together for four years— almost five. I knew you were in love with him."

"Then why'd you stay with me?"

"Because I'm a masochist. And when you weren't in love with him, you were in love with me, and I was always in love with you.

"Was it everything you ever wanted?"

"It was like having awkward sex with my best friend."

Spot shouldn't have been pleased, but he saw David's expression as an unconscious smirk crossed his face.

"I would apologize, but…" He let the sentence trail off there, shrugging and smirking once more.

"I'm sorry. I do love you."

"Just not all the way."

David didn't say anything, face blank, and Spot nodded and stood, giving a bitter smile towards his ex.

"Well, I'm glad I never asked you to marry me then, eh?"

And he left once more.

* * *

Spot heard of Jack's return on a slush filled day in late November, after Thanksgiving, if his fridge full of leftovers was anything to go by— he could never tell with his mother, every time he came over was a cause for celebration it seemed. He was still staying with Racetrack, irrationally grateful that his friend couldn't keep a girlfriend for longer than a week and kick him out or something. His family had thought that he and Race were dating, Race's family as well, and it took everything in his power to not just agree and feel the slight thrill of happiness that came with his mother's indulgent smile. But dating Racetrack would just be like dating a sibling, and just no, Spot did _not_ want to go there.

"Jack's back."

"Yeah?" Spot asked, tracing little patterns on the window, the heater making them fog up without him having to use his breath.

"The transfer didn't go through. I saw him at the mall."

"Hmm."

"He was at the ring shop."

Spot took a deep breath and traced more patterns, swirls turning into angles and lines crossing out each other as he thought about why Jack was in the shop.

"Well, I suppose we'll be attending a wedding, won't we?"

"I'll even let you be my date," was all Racetrack said in reply, clapping a hand on Spot's shoulder before declaring that he would make dinner.

"Thanks," Spot murmured, knowing that while Racetrack was in the other room, he had heard.

* * *

The one thing he hadn't been expecting going back into work on Monday was the sounds of nothing exciting. He had been expecting banners and 'congratulations' and everything else that had seemed to happen when an engagement had been announced. But it was just like any other normal day.

"He loves you, you know."

"Excuse me?" Spot asked, looking up and blinking at the suntanned face of Jack Kelly.

"He really does."

And Jack disappeared into the throng of people moving about hurriedly because 'deadline tomorrow! Have to get this out!' Blinking, Spot bit his lip and walked the 50 steps to the cubicle he had spent way too many hours looking at before, knocking on the wall and almost hearing the hush as everyone turned their eyes towards him.

"Spot?"

"You didn't accept it."

"How— how did you know?"

"Race."

"Race knows everything, I should have expected. Of course I said no."

"Why? You love him."

"Yeah, I suppose— he's my best friend, and maybe if circumstances were different, something more."

"Why'd you say no?"

"Because I love you."

"Not all the time."

"I think that's where I was wrong before."

"Oh."

He and David looked at each other for a moment, Spot finally believing David's apologies, before he nodded and quirked a small smile at David, leaving to his own cubicle once more.

It wasn't perfect, but Spot wasn't angry anymore. And talking was what really mattered, in the end.


End file.
